Taking some "pot" shots...

A lot of my male friends constantly badger me with the eternal question - "Why do women go together to the rest room?" And as is my wont, I just smile mysteriously. They go on to add that a guy would sooner be caught dead than caught saying, “Hey Tom, wanna go to the restroom? I was going, so thought of askin you.”

It’s not the same scenario with women, who will happily go arm in arm with one another to the restroom, spend a good ten minutes there, and return smiling ear-to-ear. Cases have been known where two women acquaintances have walked into a restroom, and emerged as bosom pals, with promises of meeting up for weekend shopping, coffee, gossip, and the like, and surprise, surprise, kept these promises too.

So what goes on beyond those closed doors? Let me just say – “Lots.” (Don’t miss my Cheshire cat grin).

However, before you dismiss this as yet another monologue about Mars and Venus, let me come to the point, and assure you that is not what this post is all about. The only point of similarity is that this post too is about restrooms, and the women who frequent them.

You have the funny sorts, who will go to any kind of length to completely avoid contact with the loo door (long live those handy purse handles / sleeves / elbows). They take the meaning of germaphobes to an altogether different high, giving tough competition to the likes of Cameron Diaz, a celebrity mysophobe.

There are different ways that women wash one’s hands too. They are firstly classified into two categories: the ones who wash their hands, and the ones for whom washing is as unfamiliar a concept as is eating meat to a confirmed vegan. Going back to the first category, they can be sub-classified.

So you have those who fancy themselves as athletes of repute. So they zip in, do their business (if you know what I mean), pay a cursory visit to the washbasin, and before you can blink, they have pumped the soap into their palms, turned on the tap, washed their hands, used the paper-towel dispenser to grab a towel / waved hello to the drying machine, and bounded out, without missing a stride. Hello, you couldn’t even count till ten. (Whistle).

You have those who take their own sweet time to traipse in. These are the sorts who take the “smell the flowers along the way” advice very very seriously. So much so that you would feel that you have been transported into slo-mo, if you were to watch them. The slow motion theme becomes agonizing if you are on the other side of the loo door, waiting for them to come out. Cos obviously they will take an entire era to come out…

You have the splashers, who insist on wetting the entire world and its sister. What is life all about if you miss out on such splashings, isn’t it? The more the water, the better the party promises to be.

How can you miss out the ones who believe in water conservation. After doing the routine, they walk over to the tap, gingerly unscrew it, and upon getting a few droplets, look up to the ceiling, as if silently thanking for the holy water. It’s a “miracle” they don’t drink the droplets, making do with considering themselves “blessed” with having touched the holy water.

After the customary washing of hands, you also have those who will go the entire way – using paper towels, tossing the used ones into the trash bin. There are those who would rather use a gun to shoot themselves than dry their hands with the machine kept specifically for that purpose. Instead, they will valiantly shake their hands to make the droplets fall, closely resembling a mongrel trying its best to shake off pesky fleas. The shakers sometimes also leave a tiny lake of water right before the basin. The next unsuspecting victim to bend near the basin will thus have some very tell-tale wet patches in the front, leading to a lot of sniggering behind her back.

And then you have quite a majority of womenfolk, for whom the restroom is the perfect place to talk over the phone, cry (when they have arguments with their beaus), touch-up (already) perfect makeup, spray some heady perfume, stare at the mirror till it looks fit to crack, and then walk out, after having obviously relieved their bladders.

I should know this last category best.

I am one of them…

Paula Abdul: Rush Rush (Music Video)

While I claim to be no fan of Paula Abdul, or Keanu Reeves, for that matter, I can’t help but like this song.

Released in 1991, the song features Paula Abdul, flagging off a drag race between a twenty-something, chocolate-faced Keanu Reeves and a local toughie. Dunno why, but each time I hear this song (and I have been known to listen to it more times than I can remember), an inordinate feeling of sadness and emptiness engulfs me, especially when Abdul and Reeves ask each other if they have been in love, and whether it is “terrible.”

Ironically, this song still features in my top five favorite songs of all times.

Strange, you’d say. But I guess that’s what I am. A bundle of contradictions.....

See the video here.

Movie Review - National Treasure: Book of Secrets

With Nicholas Cage garnering critical boo-booing in 2007 (read Ghost Rider, The Wicker Man, Next), the sequel to National Treasure must be quite close to his heart.

After the well-received National Treasure(2004), National Treasure: Book of Secrets has Cage, playing the role of Benjamin Gates, cryptologist / treasure hunter of fame again. With his great-great grandfather announced as a joint-conspirator in the assassination of Abrahamm Lincoln, Gates embarks on a bracing adventure to prove his ancestor’s innocence.

He is joined in his efforts by his father, Patrick (Jon Voight – not many know that he is Angelina Jolie’s father), mother, Emily ( played by a wasted Helen Mirren), trusted aide and friend, Riley Poole (played by the goofy but nevertheless utterly delectable Justin Bartha), and estranged girlfriend Abigail (Diane Kruger).

An amazing car chase is just one of the many action-packed scenes in the movie. Gates had to unravel clues that see him travel from Paris, to London, and eventually to America – in his quest of Cibola (the American city of gold). The special effects are remarkable, and that is saying the least.

The movie keeps you on your toes, literally.

Watch it n one of those lazy Sunday afternoons, like I did.

But yeah, if you are expecting a believable, logical, unpredictable flick, you are better off giving it a miss.

I mean, come on, the guy actually kidnaps the American President for God’s sake. On the President’s birthday, no less.

Gives a whole new meaning to the song, Happy Birthday, Mr President, you’d say!

Chug-chugging to a new land...

With a native place that is six hours away from my current place of residence, I rely primarily on the Indian railways every time I go home. Besides being a comfortable, leisurely journey, as compared to its bumpier by-road counterpart.

The times that I am not nodding off in slumberland, I spend in looking out of the window. And wondering how it would be to one day, alight from the train at some sleepy-looking hamlet, where the train probably stops for just about a minute, before chug-chugging off in speed to its intended destination.

Eager bright-eyed children, tired women who walk with tinkling anklets around their ankles, sarees tucked in at their waists, men with turbans, dipping biscuits and “mathris” into sweet-boiling-hot tea, the elderly slowly walking the length of the platform, to fill their flasks with water from the trickling taps, all the while wearily waiting for their train. All of them, and yet some more – beckon.

Sometimes, I feel like dismounting, and setting off on an adventure, one that has no map, no key, no chart.

No one to pull me back, no work outstretching towards me - only an enthusiasm to go forth, and discover a new place.

Perhaps one day I will do just that

But till then I will just press my face closer to the window-pane…

Tales of the table

A couple of days back, I played nookie from work, going to see the Auto Expo yet again (Saturday’s trip being just a tantalizing trailor). In the evening, roomie and I decided to make an impromptu visit to a nearby mall, followed by a pizza meal at an upmarket pizza outlet.

Seated on our left was this much-in-love couple, who seemed to have eyes only for each other. Not once did they take their eyes off each other – such was their level of adoration. For once, caustic-tongued roomie and I were content without coming out with our trademark comments, though it did look that there was a serious lack of matter under all that peroxide in the girl.

Our silence was short-lived though. As soon as the bartender arrived at their table, complete with wine, spaghetti, pizza, and risotto, the couple proceeded to enjoy their meal. But not without first getting our undivided attention.

Case in question – jingle of cutlery. Pretty loud at that.

Aghast, we watched the couple dig into their food. And dig they did, indeed. The girl looked almost warrior-like, never leaving her fork or knife from her hand. We winced every time she, while talking to her beau, poked the item of cutlery almost into his face, when her mood hit her for some animation. He was no less; lifting slices of pizza more than a foot above the table, before plonking them onto her plate. They did so look the perfectly-made-for-each-other-couple. Thank you very much. Take a bow. Air-kissing.

Seeing that couple, I couldn’t help but remember loads of people who I have chanced to see, at glitzy restaurants, watering holes, hotels – who looked every inch posh, except when it came to picking up their forks, spoons, and knives.

Now I am no stiff upper-lipped English Queen, but yes, even I (known for not living by the rules), wouldn’t put my elbows on the table. Probably that could have something to do with my childhood, which included a primary school teacher, who taught me the following rhyme:

“Mable, Mable, if you are able,
Kindly remove your elbows from the table.”

But that is another story. This post is dedicated to people, and their different table manners. And believe me, there are quite a few.

From the ones who believe that the sole purpose of cutlery is to make jangling sounds, to the ones who think that showing one’s food in one’s mouth spells C-O-O-L, with a Capital “C.”

Then there are those, who take major inspiration from war movies. They stab food, cut around it, and then shove it into their gaping mouths. Sitting around them is too appalling for words.

You have the ones who noisily chew their food, and to make matters wore, insist on giving a running commentary on the despicable political situation f the country, all the while ensuring that you cannot help but see the bolus swirling in their mouth.
You have the ones who smudge those delicate pewter goblets with their fingers, and then you have the ones who can only best be described as cartoons, what with all that flailing with their forks. And maybe holding the fork in the right and the knife in the left, completely against customary rules.

And of course, who can forget those who look as if they have:
a) just decided to call off their week-long hunger strike
b) returned from a famished nation

And wolf down the food, chomping, chewing, and shoveling it all inside.

Leaving you to wonder secretly if they might just also decide to lick their plates clean – they look so ravenous.

That they burp and pat their tummies after their hearty meal, leaving you gagging, is only incidental.

Auto Expo: New Delhi (January 10 - 17, 2008)

Thinking that it was a Saturday and that too before lunch-time, a brave gal pal and I decided to venture out and get a dekko at the Auto Expo.

Bad idea, it turned out to be.

Thousands of other like-minded auto-enthusiasts also decided to add their share to the already-bursting-at-the-seams-traffic at Pragati Maidan.

The cars more than made up for it, though.

Despite not being able to gawp and gape at all the cars, we still managed, within an hour well-spent, to see most of the four-wheeled hot wheels we wanted to see (read Daimler Chrysler / Mercedes Benz, BMW, Audi, Chevrolet, Fiat, etc). After a lot of huff-puffing and valiant pushing, we also managed a peek at the four specimens of Nano, the much-awaited offering from TATA Motors, unveiled just a couple of days back, and already being touted as a stiff competitor for its closest rival – Maruti 800. Much elbowing later, when we finally came close upfront with it, we couldn’t help but draw out a sigh of disappointment. Now the statistics looked impressive enough – 21 % more spacious from the interior, and 8 % smaller from the exterior as compared to its already named rival, it scored zilch in the looks department, according to our girlie tastes.

Moving on, we managed glimpses of some other cars, after deciding to give the bikes a miss. We had the impressin that there were no superbikes - no Harley-Davidsons, Ducatis, Hayabusas, Ninjas, or Honda CBR1000RRs – to up the oomph quotient, and cause our hearts to flutter. Upon returning to our respective homes, we found out, to our utter dismay, that the bikes were all on display. @#$%^&

We would have stayed longer at the expo, except that all the jostling, shoving, and elbowing started getting on our nerves. Add to that the huge sea of surging people who believed that sweat was man’s greatest gift to humankind, and the hordes who believed in groping anything that remotely resembled a woman’s form, and you get the drift why we decided to cut our visit short. Believe me, being trussed like sardines in a jar inside claustrophobic exhibition halls with the likes of such people was hardly pleasant – an ordeal was more like it.

A good amount of elbowing – and we were finally out in the open. Whew! And made our way to our favorite coffee place, one that had been closed down some months back, much to our dismay, but which, last month, had reopened, much o our exhilaration.

I go to the Auto Expo again this Tuesday, this time on business passes. So I’m hoping to get some more snaps. And a lot less of shoves in my faces.

But till then, make-do with this pic that I clicked of the Audi TT TDI– a stunning beauty, one that made my jaw drop.

Vroooooooooooom....

Of truants and sticky-school issues....

In a scene straight out of our childhood, an enterprising 10-year old Mexican boy came out with a novel way to skip school. Loath to re-join school after a super Christmas vacay, he decided that watching cartoons at home was a superior alternative to being forced to attend plain vanilla school. Fair enough. Except that he ensured that no one could force him to attend school.

Reason: the innovative guy got his hands on some industrial glue lying around the house, and lo and behold! Stuck himself to his bed post.

Too bad that his mother called the authorities, who un-stuck him, and sent him packing off to school, and that too, right on time for the school bus that came around the corner.

One thing is for sure though – the chap deserves an A+ for effort.

Reading about little Diego (that’s his name) brought back memories of my own childhood. With parents who believed that truancy was an alien concept, lil’ old’ me had to come up with novel ways to do the odd skipping-school-drama.

So onions were used amply under arm pits – to get a much-wanted fever; freshly-ironed hot handkerchiefs were pressed to eager foreheads, followed by a ten-second sprint to parents, asking them to touch alarmingly-hot foreheads; pumice stones were rubbed gallantly on the face - to imitate itchy, rashes on the skin; throats were caught in scenes right from movies where protagonists were seen to be suffering from extreme cases of food-poisoning or just plain poisoning; scenes were practiced histrionically – the ones comprising tightly-held-tummies-and-contorted-in-pain faces – you name it. I knew how to do it. And how!

Except that my parents, unsuspecting at first, soon became suspicious about their daughter who would be moaning and writhing in pain in the morning, but after an hour or so, wind up in front of the television, watching animated series on television, all fever and pain forgotten, an almost gleeful look evident on her sunny face.

Oh and then you had the laziness. My personal best till date, I’d say.

One cold, wintry night – mademoiselle wore her school uniform, pleated grey woolen skirt, and stockings, and went off happily to slumberland, so that she wouldn’t have to perform the ritual (dreaded) bath-session, and just rush off to school. Except that she lived in mortal dread that her mother, one of the district’s most-frequent-user-of-water, would find out about her monkey business, and sternly turn her into the washroom in the early morning chill (shiver). To add to the fright was the constant uncomfortable sensation she felt throughout the night, cos of an overfull bladder, which couldn’t be emptied, for fear of her tomfoolery getting found out by her parents, who could only best gape at her in amusement / amazement at seeing her dressed in her school-time attire, a full ten hours before school.

I bet there are countless stories of you also, playing the proverbial truant to perfection, and which would keep one in splits.

I’d like to hear from you. Do write in. I love a good laugh too :)

I Believe

I fall and I pick myself up.

I lose hope, yet I dream.

I am lost, and I find myself again.

I cry and I laugh through my tears.

I despair,

yet

I Believe...

Hair, There, and everywhere...

With a leading Bollywood actor in the news again, both for a super-successfully-touching movie about a dyslexic child, as also for his newest hairdo, I couldn’t help but think about the various hairstyles that have come and gone (some for the better).

Remember the totally-forgettable hairstyle that an actor, known foremost for his bare-chested inclination, made famous? The entire world and its brother decided to copy the hairdo, resulting in a planet on the brink of mass no-vision, what with the locks perpetually falling over the “experimenter’s” eyes. That was one style I was happy to see fade into oblivion…

Now, my memory is not my sharpest feature (I have been told), so obviously, it’s gonna be a tad unfair of you to expect me to remember the names of all the hairdos. But lemme just try my hand to dish out some sarcasm about how some people take the term “letting their hair down,” much too literally…

So, we had a “Rachel” haircut, and a Dido haircut – styles that many women decided to perpetuate. Fair enough. Then the bee-hives, the poker-straight, the bouncy locks, the mushrooms – okay. And then came the assault of the “Spiked” warriors. First made popular by punks, spikes spawned an entire generation of ten-year olds plus, who would gladly shell out a fortune on mousse (and I don’t mean the chocolate one), gel (the extra-strong hold one), hair spray, hair wax – and all to get that “spike”-y look – one that would put needles to shame, and make anyone in the vicinity of a kilometer of the “spiked”-guy, think twice before touching them.

You also have the crew-cut, made tremendously cool more than a couple of decades back, by the then oh-so-hot Tom Cruise (in Top Gun), but which has now been relegated to getting sported by balding, pot-bellied, tobacco-chewing, middle-aged men. Now I am all for the feel-good youth factor bit, but hey, one look at these sorts, and I bet you will also just gape at their confidence, which they seem to have in sheer abundance.

The gelled-look, if done in a toned-down manner, looks engaging enough. But there are those who swear by the I-have-gel-will-slather-it-all-on-today-itself syndrome. So, what might have looked like an appealing picture makes the person look like an omelette having a bad oily day, and ensuring that there is always a satisfied rolling-their-eyes-and-laughing-uncontrollably audience. The tissues come in handy too – to stuff into the mouth to mute the guffaws…

The braided look, getting adopted by some “experimental” men, looks like it could hurt one. Just imagine – one of these braided sorts going to a watering-hole, one that boasts of grunge metal. Post a few spirits, these souls decide to give head banging a shot. Surprise surprise – the once cramped dance floor, empties as if by magic. NOTE: Bouncers not even needed.

Everytime I see a guy with dreadlocks, I am tempted to say two things:

a) Dude, you aint Bob Marley / Lenny Kravitz
b) Do u ever wash your hair? (eyes rolling)

(While the first, I can still pull-off, I'm loath to use the second, certain that it borders on the offensive, and will earn me a disdainful look or two).

The Mohawk (also known as a Mohican), made a global feature by a blonde soccer player, reminds me of a cross between a parakeet and a bald eagle. Fortunately, this style hasn’t permeated into our country. Had it been, it was guaranteed to keep the onlookers in splits.

The mullet (where one keeps the hair short in front, and long at the back), made famous by Michael Bolton and Phil Collins, seems to a hot favorite at my workplace, where men of all ages consider it the equivalent of cool, not realizing that they just remind one of erstwhile rulers who have lost their kingdoms, but were allowed to keep their long-ish hair. Go on people, trim it all over. Believe me, you’ll look and feel better, what with that unwanted junk off your head…

I could probably go on and on, except that this blog post is assuming gargantuan proportions. So before I feel I’m getting into your hair (pun intended), let me pull up over here.

Meanwhile, if you have any hair-related stories / comments, you know where to “trim” and send them.

The Cookie Thief

This time while at home, I chanced to see a movie that boasted of ten different stories. While some were better written-off, one, which starred Shabana Azmi – a bastion of Bollywood, was clearly outstanding.

Even after the ten-minute story was over, I couldn’t help but mull over that staunch Brahmin lady, who seems intent on perpetuating the caste-system, but who, in a chance encounter with Naseerudin Shah, another Bollywood veteran, in a station canteen, comes out with a change of heart. A discussion with TOOMA ensued, and he also expressed his assent that the subject was sensitively portrayed. Coming from him, that's the highest praise one can marshal.

The simple story found the right note with me, and I couldn’t help but notice its uncanny similarity with a poem I had read many years back. A poem which, somewhere along the line, makes us wonder if the assumptions we had made, were correct in the first place. And that there is indeed something right about so-called benefit of doubt Below, I reproduce the poem for you, just in case you haven’t read it. It’s by Valerie Cox.

The Cookie Thief

A woman was waiting at an airport one night,
With several long hours before her flight.
She hunted for a book in the airport shops.
Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop.

She was engrossed in her book but happened to see,
That the man sitting beside her, as bold as could be.
Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag in between,
Which she tried to ignore to avoid a scene.

So she munched the cookies and watched the clock,
As the gutsy cookie thief diminished her stock.
She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,
Thinking, “If I wasn’t so nice, I would blacken his eye.”

With each cookie she took, he took one too,
When only one was left, she wondered what he would do.
With a smile on his face, and a nervous laugh,
He took the last cookie and broke it in half.

He offered her half, as he ate the other,
She snatched it from him and thought… oooh, brother.
This guy has some nerve and he’s also rude,
Why he didn’t even show any gratitude!

She had never known when she had been so galled,
And sighed with relief when her flight was called.
She gathered her belongings and headed to the gate,
Refusing to look back at the thieving ingrate.

She boarded the plane, and sank in her seat,
Then she sought her book, which was almost complete.
As she reached in her baggage, she gasped with surprise,
There was her bag of cookies, in front of her eyes.

If mine are here, she moaned in despair,
The others were his, and he tried to share.
Too late to apologize, she realized with grief,
That she was the rude one, the ingrate, the thief.

How many times in our lives,
have we absolutely known
that something was a certain way,
only to discover later that
what we believed to be true … was not?

Breakaway

I claim to be no fan of shrieking girl singers, and their weak attempts at rock/punk-pop (case in question - Sheryl Crow’s “Sweet Child of Mine” – a one-time hear and you will also be begging for mercy from the Dear Lord).

However I have to eat humble pie when the singers in question are Pink, Avril lavigne, or, as is the case here, Kelly Clarkson.

This song, Breakaway, strikes the right chord with you somewhere.

I like the grunge music feel that it has, besides the lyrics, of course.

This Kelly rocks; unlike her other namesake – the troubled one.

...And a Happy New Year!!

They say that one does all year round, what one does on the first day of the year.

Try as I did, I just couldn’t get myself to posting anything on my blog on Jan 01. I am conveniently gonna put the blame on the cold wave in Delhi that has ensured that I think thrice before I venture my hands out of my warm blanket (when I am at home, that is). But yeah, I do hope I get to a lot of (creative) writing this year. And nope this isn’t a New Year Resolution – one of those that goes in one (y)ear and out the next (y)ear ;-)

To cut a long story short, 2008 is here. And boy! Did 2007 go speeding by!

I’m guessing many of us ushered 2008, despite the blustery weather, with holding hands, piping hot snacks, the odd spin on the dance floor (maybe you were flabbergasted, like I was, how some people could burn up the dance floor), and the staple bubbly (though maybe not in that order).

Here’s to a super 2008.

Let’s chink those glasses.

Hic hic.

PS: On a more sober note, out of the tonnes of New Year messages, there was one that I really liked.

Am quoting it here.

On failing twice, Sir Edmund Hillary challenged Mt. Everest, " I'll come again. As a mountain you can't grow. But as a human, I can." May we all grow together in 2008.

Kind of strikes the right note, doesn't it?